A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

THE POINT

Tomorrow tries
To stare at me
With its unseeing eyes,
I am a threat still,
A predator
To be fooled yet again
By the blind roundels
Worn on its wings.
Yet, there it is,
Tomorrow,
Impaled,
By the fine points
Of the conditions it made,
The ludicrous dreams
It carried in its heart,
Pinned to the plump,
Dusty velvet
In a collector's drawer.
Those lifeless wings
Will fly no more,
Their promise
Broken yesterday.
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